


To those who Dwell in Realms of day

by iblankedonmyname



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley cries, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, POV Crowley, Picnic in the park, Smut, aziraphale does all the work, bentley makeout, can i get a wahoo, crowley is a nervous wreck, heaven isn't okay with queer relationships in this, so soft, switch aziraphale, switch crowley, wahoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-13 16:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19255372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iblankedonmyname/pseuds/iblankedonmyname
Summary: Crowley isn't sure how to catch-up to Aziraphale's sudden, specific appetite.There are some good non-sex moments in this. If you just want a good fic minus dick touching, read chapter 1 and 4. The story reads the same, and is actually quite sweet.Also this might be insensitive to some, heaven isn't okay with queer relationships in this. It's mentioned in chapter 4.





	1. Chapter 1

The pair sit on a yellow tartan blanket on a crested, grassy hill overlooking the pond in St James Park. They both wear their respective colors. Crowley in something sharp and dark, glasses on, which seem to passersby completely usual on this sunny, mid-July afternoon. Aziraphale sits primly upright on his heels in a blend of creams and khakis, glass of champagne in one hand and a half-eaten strawberry in the other. Despite the illegality of drinking in an inner-city park, no authority is able to look too long at the pair without _miraculously_ losing interest.

Crowley lounges out on the sheet. Legs crossed at the ankle. Elbows supporting his shoulders. As they often did on their get-togethers, they are reminiscing about moments in Earth’s history.

“Now Studio 54 had some of the best parties I’ve ever been too. Better than Rome. Better than Greece.” Crowley twirls the stem of an empty champagne flute.

“Better than the 1920s?” Aziraphale interrupts surprised.

“Oh yes. You had already left America by that time, so you missed it.” His tone is slightly chastising.

“I had been too long away from my bookshop during World War One, and staying through the Great Depression seemed so drab.” Aziraphale drops the rest of the strawberry into his champagne, and sips at it. 

Crowley makes a face. “You know I didn’t stay for that decade, but popping over to America every now and then isn’t hard.”

“I’m not sure I would have looked proper at Studio 54” Aziraphale musses. “I barely looked right in the 1920s.” 

“Based on what everyone else wore, no one would’ve batted an eye at you. You could’ve rode in on a horse naked for G-s..” Crowley stumbles unable to bring himself to say God “..you know.” He recovers quietly and looks away.

“Naked? Doesn’t seem like something an angel would do.” Aziraphale huffs. “At least not since the Renaissance…”

“Now that was a party!” Both Aziraphale and Crowley exclaim, meeting each other’s eyes.

They both slowly look off, meditating instead on the sweep of the hill down to the walking path and pond. There are plenty of humans in the park today. Joggers go by in groups or alone. A tour guide wanders along with clusters of photo-snapping tourists. A cyclist on a regular cruiser slowly unmounts his bike and glides a short distance to meet a woman walking toward him. As he slows and lands in front of her, she wraps her arms around his neck and he kisses her, one hand clutched on the handlebars of the stilled bike and one hand wrapping around her waist. It’s a simple kiss that doesn’t linger too long to be improper for a public greeting. When the kiss ends, the two beam at each other, and begin to spill into a grinning conversation. The shine of their sparkling eyes can be seen all the way up on the hill crest, despite being several meters away. Crowley feels immediately a bit sick. _Oh humans. Enjoy it while you can, you short-lived, delicate things._ He glances behind his glasses at Aziraphale. Who apparently also watched the kiss and is now clutching his chest with a warm smile on his face.

Aziraphale sighs. “I never get used to how charming humans are when they are in love.” Recognizing Crowley’s glance his way has the air of a question.

Crowley’s classic response to this has always been “Blehh.” It aptly hides his feelings for Aziraphale and is also an acceptable response for a demon anytime love is mentioned. He applies this response.

The couple slowly meander down the path, clearly enraptured with each other. Laughing lightly at, for, and to each other. The bicycle twilling along at an arm’s length until they move out of sight. Aziraphale watches them go. His expression unchanged despite Crowley’s non-response. When they disappear, he becomes extremely pensive. He casts a few furtive glances at Crowley, nervously picks at his lips, and practically wiggles.

“What is it, angel?” Crowley sighs. These were tell-tale signs that Aziraphale has finally grasped some long-sought concept, and is unsure how to properly voice it.

“Well I, what if we…” Aziraphale stammers.

Crowley’s eyebrows slowly raise, but he decides to give him all the time he needs for this one. Aziraphale is always surprising. It’s hard for Crowley to surmise where his mind has wandered.

Aziraphale recovers a bit after a breath, but looks down to fiddle with a button on his vest. His courage is visibly building though, his jaw becoming set. He glances at Crowley one more time, who shrugs at him, a universal sign for “yes? Go on.” When Aziraphale finally answers, his voice is slow and careful. Since almost-armageddon and becoming a traitor to his respective side, he is able to ask harder questions without blustering through them or ignoring them all together. His glance lingers but is a little shrouded.

“What do you think would happen if we kissed?”

Crowley jerks lightly, like a snake jabbed in their soft underbelly. The champagne flute fumbles in his fingers and is dropped on the blanket. His mind blanks. Unable to come up with a suitable quip or brush it off quickly, Crowley’s pause stretches. Aziraphale remains pointedly looking at Crowley awaiting his response.

After possibly an eternity, Crowley’s mind catches up. “Might sting a little.” He practically whispers, “Probably worth checking.” He adds as an afterthought even softer, “..if you like.”

Aziraphale’s eyes bore into Crowley’s. The sunglasses are hardly a barrier in the tree-dappled sunlight. The wind passes through the branches. Aziraphale smiles coyly and decidedly places his champagne glass down. Crowley stays very still, pinned in place. In some far-off part of his brain, he feels like coiling. But then Aziraphale is sliding off his heels and leaning over. A familiar electric feeling jolts through them both as Aziraphale’s fingers touch against Crowley’s temple. He slides Crowley’s glasses up into his hair, and when their eyes fully meet, now exposed, Aziraphale bends down.

The kiss is light at first, a sparkling brush reminiscent to the bubbles of champagne. Crowley can’t help to bring one of his hands up to cradle Aziraphale’s head and keep him from moving away, if inclined. Aziraphale shifts, lips parting, and the kiss deepens.

Crowley has kissed many people in his long time on Earth; comes with the territory. Demon. Lust being a sin and all. But in all of his memory, no kiss was ever so enchanting and drugging and _damning_ as this one with Aziraphale. Perhaps it’s because angels and demons kissing is definitely a big no-no. Or perhaps it is due to the six thousand years of Crowley’s pinning, and humans just don’t have the gas for that. Crowley thinks distantly if he had to wait another six thousand years for this feeling, he would.

The kiss has to end sometime, so unfortunately for the both of them, it ends. During the length of the kiss, Crowley has sank down onto the blanket with Aziraphale perched on his chest. Both angel and demon are abnormally flushed. Crowley’s eyes are unnaturally large. Aziraphale is practically glowing, and he is the first to slowly collect himself off Crowley.

A dagger-like feeling stabs into Crowley. _Ah it was bad! Or he’s already regretting it! And I’m going to have to chase him around for another century or two._ He even begins to shake his head. “Didn’t you like it? It wasn’t painful.”

Aziraphale’s expression is beguiling with bright, shimmering eyes and dimples everywhere possible. “It’s about time to leave the garden. Don’t you think so?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley make out in a few places. Crowley considers the challenges of genitals. There is a dick touch in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kind words. I don't write fanfiction very often and this is the longest one I've written to date. Thanks for reading.

In an incredible feat of control, neither Crowley or Aziraphale miracles themselves into some secluded location to quickly devour each other. Instead they collect themselves, surprisingly mute, pack up the picnic remnants, fold the blanket, and head back to Crowley’s bentley. It is only on the short walk back, Crowley’s control falters and he blurts, “Back there!” He gestures wildly to their receding picnic spot on the grass, “Back there! We kissed!” 

Aziraphale’s eyes are surprisingly devious, “Yes Crowley, I was there. As soon as we get back to the car, I’m sure we will again.”

Crowley freezes to his spot, “We will?!” 

“I think so. It was an awfully nice kiss, wasn’t it? It’d be sad to stop now.” Aziraphale winks and moves on ahead.

A familiar venom twists in Crowley’s stomach, “Nice?”  _ Wait. I shouldn’t be mad about that.  _ He quickly moves ahead of Aziraphale and trundles along backwards so he can have view of the angel’s face. “Demons don’t give  _ nice _ kisses.”

“Fine, Crowley, it was a hellish kiss. I am unmade, bent with lust, you foul spawn of hell.” Aziraphale acts like a blushing damsel for a moment, raising a wrist to his brow.

Crowley frowns. This whole exchange isn’t how he expected all of this to happen at all. He had imagined that Aziraphale would be an  _ actual _ damsel about the whole ‘first kiss’ thing. Now that it actually happened, he is off kilter. Aziraphale is taking it too well.

“What? You aren’t afraid of fire? Brimstone? God herself literally coming down and smiting you? Krakkow!!!” Crowley imitates lightning as they approach his car. Aziraphale pops the trunk, and Crowley deposits the blanket and basket in the back. His eyes don’t leave Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose I should be, shouldn’t I?” He snaps the lid down. “Are you worried?”

“Well no, this is well within my job description.” They are both moving to each other’s respective sides of the car. Aziraphale gets in first and when Crowley sits in the driver’s seat, “This was never a bench seat.”

“Oh, I never noticed.” Aziraphale slides the distance over to Crowley and thigh against thigh, captures his mouth again.

This kiss deepens faster than the first on the grass. Lips part with a newfound speed and interest. As if from a far off distance, Crowley feels himself clutching at Aziraphale’s lapels and pressing back hungry. His tongue flicks against teeth, against inner-cheek, and against other tongue. He grounds himself, enveloped in the sensation of Aziraphale’s receptive mouth. Together, they spend no shortage of time relishing in each other’s shivering fascination with the other’s lips, teeth, and tongue. When Crowley breaks away to kiss the pressure point below Aziraphale’s jaw, Aziraphale moans. Time returns to the bentley.

They are in a heap on the newly-miracled bench seat. Coats are half off and rumpled. Legs are tangled. Someone is honking down the street. A man on the nearby street corner has begun busking on an accordion. The world has returned in its rich and awful entirety. Crowley brings himself upright and starts the bentley as if in a trance.  _ Is this actually happening? _ Instead he says “Can I take you anywhere?”

Aziraphale remains draped along the bench seat. He considers Crowley with a penetrating eye only to bring himself back to sitting. He straightens his vest and coat. “Can I come back to your place?”

Crowley pushes his glasses back up his nose. They had slipped. “Yes. Sure. Why not.”

The drive back to Crowley’s flat has an unusual tenseness, like the air in the vehicle is at a higher elevation than normal. At first as they drove away from the park, the car started playing Who Wants to Live Forever before being turned off abruptly. Riding on in silence is far worse. Crowley speeds up. Aziraphale doesn’t protest despite the car almost missing a line of school children crossing the road and speeding through a red during rush hour. He doesn’t even grip the door handle around the corners. He’s lost in thought. Crowley sweats.

Once back at the flat, both had barely made a peep except one comment on the pleasantness of the evening and one on the moment before the Library of Alexandria caught fire. This comment hadn’t gone over very well. Once inside, Aziraphale wanders into the plant hall first, and inspects them all. He has been to the flat a few times already and is aware of Crowley’s unusual gardening techniques. “Is he still shouting at you?” Aziraphale whispers conspiratorially to a ficus. The ficus remains mute, scared to death of Crowley hovering near the door.

Crowley smirks pleased. Seeing Aziraphale glowing in the light of the atrium among his beloved plants has shattered the crackling awkwardness of the car ride. He makes to enter the living room. “Leave them be. They’re busy. Drink?”

“That sounds lovely.” Aziraphale follows him.

The living room is similar to the rest of the house. It’s polished black concrete. It has a severe sectional sofa wrapped around a pointy-looking coffee table among other sharp, black things. The bar cabinet sticks out. Its a hand painted antique with claws for legs from an unknown time period. Crowley hands Aziraphale a scotch, who sips it pleasantly. Eyes lighting up after the first taste.

“Oh this  _ is _ lovely!” And he takes another and settles on the back of the sofa.

“It’s Glenlivet,” Crowley kills the drink in a single sip. “From a very long time ago. I can’t remember when.” Aziraphale hums on the glass edge. Crowley is struck that not long ago he was sipping on Aziraphale’s lips. He pours himself another glass and drains it. Aziraphale watches him unperturbed, but places his own glass down. Hands free, he captures Crowley’s belt and pulls him in. 

“You seem nervous.” Aziraphale smiles sweetly at his ensnared demon.

“I’m not nervous.” Crowley rasps.

“When have you ever lied to me.” Aziraphale tugs the metallic tie that decorates Crowley’s neck to reel him down into a soft kiss. Their tastes are richer now, altered by the scotch. After two shots, Crowley ignites a little faster, and dives his tongue after Aziraphale’s with a new courage. Crowley’s fire is met with a slow and thorough insistence. They hold each other as if drowning, caught in each other’s many layers of clothing.

Their breathing takes on a similar pace. They had begun this kiss on the back of the couch, but now both are upside down sliding past the couch seat towards the floor. Aziraphale is laughing into Crowley’s mouth. It’s an exuberance Crowley hasn’t experienced much in his life.

When the first part of their bodies meet the floor, there is a moment’s pause before the expected, massive clatter. Crowley jerks up to offer a spew of apologies, but Aziraphale’s eyes are glassy like after too many bottles of wine. He’s looks high on glee; flushed and grinning. It takes a moment for Crowley to realize, the entity pressing into his thigh from between Aziraphale’s legs is not a pulled muscle. His eyes widen. _God damn it Aziraphale._

Aziraphale, delighted, presses into Crowley’s grip on his waist with a heated wiggle. Crowley, helpless, feasts on the sight of Aziraphale’s obvious, human arousal.

Miracling genitals does that. While Crowley has always felt attracted to Aziraphale. Sexual attraction exists only with the necessary hormones that trigger a human ‘receptacle’ to become aroused. No human genitals, no hormones to trigger that specific need. However, brains are powerful. Ideas and sensations become intwined and hard to forget. Crowley realized early that sex is often boring. Sometimes to pass the time he could think about other things, other people, or other divine entities all together. At first it was embarrassing to think about fucking an angel, especially Aziraphale, the literal cream puff of heaven, but it oddly brought him to completion in a lot of awkward, difficult jobs. Slowly, he fell into relying, and even deeply enjoying, these mental excursions. The manifested ideas didn’t just leave his mind when eventually the ‘equipment’ wore off. He carried many hungry, hand-crafted thoughts in his brain for a long time regardless of having the hormones available to act on them.

“Touch me” Aziraphale voice is barely a whisper and yet it still has the power of a command. Crowley snaps to attention and sees that Aziraphale has been watching him.

“Over or under?” He struggles out.

“Under.”

Crowley’s insides shudder, but he doesn’t protest. He unbuckles Aziraphale’s belt and unfastens his trousers single-handedly. His hand slips down to grasp the new creation on Aziraphale’s groin. It’s of average size, as if Aziraphale read somewhere what was normal and was like ‘that seems fine,’ as if unaware that for humans, ego and dick size are symbolically related. Strangely, Aziraphale’s ignorance or complete dismissal of this idea is sexy. Crowley runs his hand down the length of it and Aziraphale rises into him with a small gasp.

“Aren’t you going to do it too?” Aziraphale watches him through lidded eyes.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Hesitant, bordering on a shiver.

“Don’t you want me?” It’s practically a whimper.

_ Ahhhhh, his blasted manipulation.  _ Crowley sighs. His patience is phenomenal. His careful waiting is mastered over centuries of practice. He’s been a snake lying in wait for a certain prey, breathing slowly, keeping still for the entirety of the world’s existence. It is a hard habit to break, to suddenly realize that now is the time. The routine of denial runs deep.

“What would you like me to be?” Crowley is unable to lie and say no, but he also is unable to boldly say ‘Of course I want you, you absolute dunce. Stop teasing me.’

“A man with a penis.”

_ Oh. _ He should have guessed that. He looks like a man and behaves like one mostly. Aziraphale is similar.  _ This is going to be gay. Really gay. _ And that’s surprising coming from a former representative of heaven.

“Fine, okay, I’ll do it, but not here.” _ On the ground. I’m not taking you on the ground! How did we even get here?! _

“Where?”

“Uhhhh.” His brain is beginning a full-scale melt down. Crowley swears alarms are blaring somewhere. “Er”  _ What even is language?! _ “the bedroom?”

Aziraphale grins, hastily collects himself, grabs the top of his loosened trousers, and stands. Crowley is jarred by this transformation from hazy to focused, but stands slowly, more uncertain. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter with the sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kind words. I'm posting this a day earlier than I promised. Enjoy!

The bed is cool and set when Aziraphale and Crowley fall haphazardly across it. Aziraphale is breathing hard and in the process of taking off his vest. Somewhere out in the hall, someone began kissing the other only to forget how to walk and tumble the last few steps into the bedroom. Aziraphale continues to struggle while desperately plunging into Crowley’s mouth. He takes off Crowley glasses and throws them haphazardly into the room’s corner, forgotten.

Crowley waits until they are sprawled on his bed before willing himself a cock. He is very aware of the symbology, and he’s not humble, unlike apparently Aziraphale, so he makes it above average in size. The rush of hormones is equal parts wonderful and painful. A mind-altering substance, it wipes his hesitations away. He feels starved for sensation as arousal tears through his body. He wants to touch Aziraphale everywhere, taste everything, he wants him to want the same. The post-miracle kiss is rougher and more frenzied than before. Crowley deftly sheds Aziraphale’s vest and begins on the buttons of his shirt. Aziraphale purrs into Crowley’s lips on his neck. He rocks his hips up and Crowley grunts against his throat. Fingers slip between fabric and skin. He’s so soft. He tastes like lemon sugar on crepes.

Aziraphale is working on Crowley’s belt. He’s distracted so it’s taking awhile. He whimpers with frustration. Crowley straddles his waist and disrobes, before sliding off to remove Aziraphale’s pants and shoes. The moment is quiet like the calm before the storm. The room is dark except for the light from the hall and a sliver of orange streetlight. Blood rages underneath Crowley’s calm exterior. Every movement is a calculation; untie this shoelace, place that leg down, do it again. He stands before Aziraphale, who has propped up on his elbows and is watching with a shivering gaze. He’s beautiful nude; pale, smooth, scrumptiously erect. His expression sits on the edge of youthful and so very ancient, timeless, his face both full of life and tired, an exhaustion only Crowley recognizes. Glints of gold flash along the top of his chest and thighs, an angel’s mark. It’s the first time Crowley has seen them, but there are other things to obsess over right now.

Crowley smirks trailing his hands down the angel’s thighs and marks. “Tell me what you want.” He needs to hear it. He’s holding back a storm afterall. 

“Come here and kiss me.”

Crowley obliges. Lightning strikes as their naked bodies brush together. Their legs interweave. Their erections touch. Heat builds between them. The kiss is long and breathless. Hands flutter to waists and grind. Aziraphale buries his head in Crowley’s neck and reaches down between them. He grips himself and Crowley in one hand and pumps down.

Crowley moans raggedly and his head lolls back. Aziraphale does it again, and this time he bites back a hiss. Not to be upstaged, Crowley reaches his hand down Aziraphale’s spine and into space between his cheeks. His fingers seek the opening he eventually wants to release in. Aziraphale smiles into his collar bone, and pumps again, both bodies spasm. Despite the temptation to just succumb to Aziraphale’s touch, Crowley finds his hole and circles it smoothly with a digit. His reward is an open mouth groan. Aziraphale pushes back into his hand, and he pumps again.

“You like that.” Crowley whispers into Aziraphale’s ear. He nips and licks the lobe.

“Yes. Please.” Is his choked reply. He squeezes their erections. Crowley loses his breath a moment.

“Oh...I see. You want more?” 

Aziraphale nods, “yes, please. Please.”

Crowley smiles dizzily. He presses his finger into Aziraphale. It gives easily and is already slicked. If Crowley wasn’t hard before, he is definitely hard now. “...Aziraphale, did you miracle a lubed asshole?”

Aziraphale chuckles even in his haze, but doesn’t respond.

“Well I never.” Crowley whispers. His wonder subsides, and in its place settles a known affection. He presses a second finger in. Aziraphale groans, and his grip on their manhoods relaxes. 

Crowley pulses his fingers in and out, appreciating the slick flecking muscle. It is trance-like. Aziraphale shifts in his grip, and kisses up his jaw line. A recognizable sensation pools into his lower stomach. Hormones are magical.

Before he does anything for himself, Crowley focuses back on Aziraphale. His eyes are shut tightly, forehead wrinkled, and he’s chewing fiercely on his bottom lip. Crowley flexes his fingers, and Aziraphale mouth drops open, no sound comes out. A jolt of desire travels up his spine. He slides down and while fingers still probing, brings Aziraphale’s cock into his mouth. He practically jumps, and gasps through his teeth. “Oh, Crowley,” and Crowley could hear his name said like that for all eternity and never tire of it. He rewards Aziraphale with a long, tongue-heavy suck. “Fuuuck.”  _ Mmmm crass. _

Throughout Crowley’s ministrations, Aziraphale progresses through muttering all kinds of lovely curses in all kinds of breathy ways. He struggles to resist the orgasm overtaking him. Crowley can feel him collapsing. After several more wet pulses, Aziraphale suddenly grabs his red locks, groans ecstatically, and then crumples shaking. Crowley laps twice more on his semi-erect member before scooting up to see what an angel looks like destroyed. He’s a vision glistening with sweat. His damp, blond hair sticks to his forehead. He opens his eyes with a new thankfulness. Crowley kisses him. “I want to fuck you. May I fuck you?”

Aziraphale flashes him a delirious smile. “God yes.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose, “Nothing God about it.” He turns Aziraphale onto his knees before acrobatically digging for a second in his bed stand drawer. He removes some lube to coat his ‘little horn’. He notes that Aziraphale has gold lines down his back too, another reminder that ‘yes, this is an angel’. He positions himself efficiently and presses the tip of his dick in.  _ Oh. Ohhh. _

_ Oh fuck. _ They share a shudder. Hands on the angel’s hips, he excruciatingly enters by centimeters. Every centimeter deeper he rocks out two before pressing forward. Aziraphale arches his back and growls, pressing back hard. Crowley’s brain spasms and reboots. They fall into a quick grinding pattern. Everything aches with building pressure, Crowley bites his lip, and crushes Aziraphale hips still against the bed. “Stop.” He breathes in and out rapidly. “Stop. I’m going to cum. Stay still.”

Aziraphale doesn’t struggle against the restraining weight. He sighs into the comforter.

Crowley centers himself. He drapes his chest onto Aziraphale’s back, and reaches for Aziraphale’s cock. Firmly in his hand, Aziraphale wiggles back again, either resisting Crowley’s grip or determined to be penetrated.  _ He’s so good. _ Crowley kisses the back of his neck. He enters him slowly. “Please, Aziraphale, tell me I’m good.”

Aziraphale is obviously confused, “you’re good.” And Crowley is confused too but for some reason, he needs to hear it. He picks up the pace, pressure is building again, slower this time. He thrusts in deeper than before and he melts.

“You are so tight, angel.” He chokes out. “Tell me again.”

Aziraphale moves his hips in rhythm to Crowley’s strokes. “You are so good.” 

Crowley swallows tightly. His thrusts are deep but erratic, rough. Everything is becoming compressed, heavy, and hard like the dwarf star in Alpha Centauri. “Tell me again, please.” He begs.

“You are so, so good, Crowley.” His voice is so sweet, gentle, and thankful. It echoes from far away.

Crowley is staggered. He collapses over Aziraphale’s back wrecked and sticky, bathing in every pulsing sensation.

Together they rest for awhile. Their breathing returns to normal. They mutually pet one another fascinated by the other’s skin. They never have had so much access to touching each other. The entire world shrinks to the space between their bodies, and its calm.

Aziraphale moves first. He closes the distance between them and sups on Crowley’s lower lip. It’s seems innocent, until his hands slide down Crowley’s thin torso to rest on his phallus. 

Crowley jolts.  _ That came back quick _ . The kiss turns insistent.

Aziraphale breaks away for a moment and looks fraught, “Would you...could I?”

“Whatever you want.”

His face is serious, and one of his arms swings back to scramble for something in the blankets. He produces the lost and forgotten bottle of lube, pumps some onto his fingers, and drags Crowley’s hips against his.

Crowley practically squeaks when Aziraphales fingers find his hole and slide in. They feel like an interruption, but he settles into it easily. “That wasn’t what I expected.”

Aziraphale stills. “I can stop.”

“No no, whatever you want. I meant it.” Crowley lazily snaps his fingers, and he gives easier to Aziraphale’s probing.  _ Such a neat trick, clever angel.  _ Without the previous resistance, he begins to relax into the darting pressure. Crowley is slipping into the black waters of his own head. Aziraphale has found the inside spot that suggests even a demon can saunter back into Heaven and high five the Metatron. He makes a strange noise. Abruptly, he is shifted onto his back, so he cracks an eye. “Whu?”

Aziraphale’s expression is positively lecherous. Crowley can’t remember the muscle memory needed to startle. “I’m going to enter you now.” A clinical statement in its verbiage, but twisted into some masterful seduction alongside that expression. Aziraphale places Crowley legs up on his waist, and drives his cock into him. 

Crowley’s muscles shake taunt like a bow string. He gasps for air. Aziraphale’s tip slides up and brushes the internal, sensitive spot in the far back of Crowley’s wretched arousal. It quivers, everything is quivering. Aziraphale does it again, and again, and Crowley is turning into pudding.

Right next to Crowley’s ear, but it sounds far off, Aziraphale murmurs “You feel so good, Crowley. You feel amazing.” He sucks on the demons neck softly, trailing down to the base of his throat. 

“Ah, I’m going to cum.” Crowley mutters as if it surprises even himself. Aziraphale grasps his pre-cum slicked erection and strokes. He jerks up into the hand and wails. His release is a punch to the gut. He can barely breathe. Aziraphale is convulsing, and collapsing, and panting fiercely. Two angels falling together.

Recovering takes a bit longer than before. Together they float like almost-drowned men clinging to driftwood at sea. Some time later, they unanimously decide to get under the bed covers. The decision is hard to accept, moving required and all, but is accomplished without complaint. Some more time later, in the dark, Aziraphale murmurs. “Are you crying?”

“Demons don’t cry” but when he brings his fingers up to the edge of his eye, there is a trail of wetness down his cheek. Shock spreads through him. There were only a few moments in history, he has wept before. Once after the Ark, when he realized that the Earth wasn’t just a place to ‘make trouble in’ but was actually very cruel, and people and god alike did terrible, terrible things that he was supposed to rejoice in. And once when he thought a certain angel was dead. This feels different though. He doesn’t feel sad but happy; just insanely happy.

Upon this realization, Crowley shivers out a sob and tears begin rolling down his face in earnest. He wants this release to end as quickly as it began, feeling overly-exposed and raw. He rolls his nose into Aziraphale neck and breaks down.

Aziraphale holds him tightly without question. His hands travel up and down Crowley’s long spine in delicate, comforting strokes. Within a few minutes, the wet breathy sobs become farther and farther apart, and Crowley stills.

“Are you alright?”

Crowley blinks into Aziraphale neck, considering. “I’m better than alright. Maybe overwhelmed. I think I’m feeling overwhelmed.”

Aziraphale sighs but doesn’t stop petting Crowley. “I won’t do that again then, I’m sorry.”

Crowley bolts upright in alarm, “I didn’t say that!” He hisses wetly, “you can do that anytime, anywhere you want. I liked it.”

“Oh Crowley.” Aziraphale wraps his arms around his neck and brings him down to his mouth for a series of short kisses. “You are”... ”so amazing”... ”fantastic”... ”lovely”... “perfect.”

“Can I get a wahoo?” Crowley snickers into the corner of Aziraphale‘s lips.

Even in the dark, Crowley can see Aziraphale roll his eyes. Nonetheless, “Wahoo.”

Crowley props himself up to look down at Aziraphale. He appears calm, a relaxed smile presses into his cheeks, eyes focused, but tired. Crowley looks away and focuses on the gold lines under Aziraphale collar bone. The gold travels over his chest and curls at his shoulders before curving down his back. Crowley traces one with a finger for a short time. “I’ve never seen these.” He casually mentions.

“Mm?”

While they are beautiful and he feels privileged to finally look at them, Crowley presses up and plants a series of harsh, sucking kisses along aziraphale’s shoulder ridge. Aziraphale whimpers and arches into each one, but doesn’t verbally protest. When Crowley pulls back, Aziraphale is pouting. “Why?”

“A little mark of my own. For us. For our side.”

“I get to leave one too then.”

Crowley laughs and exposes his neck. “Fair is fair.”

Aziraphale laughs in return, but while shaking his head, flips Crowley onto his back, “not there.” And presses his mouth onto the crest of Crowley’s jutting, hip bone.

Crowley groans, and slips his hands into Aziraphale’s hair. Eventually he finishes, leaving a pulsing, hot mark behind, and rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder. There isn’t much more for either to say after that. Crowley’s exhaustion is soul deep, a long painful ache finally massaged and soothed. He dozes in a tranquil haze for an unknown amount of time before quietly falling into a dreamless slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after

Crowley places a warm cup of tea in front of Aziraphale. The cup is a contemporary red ceramic with saucer and silver spoon. Aziraphale smiles warmly at him, but Crowley retreats to lean against the black polished-cement counter for his own cup. The distance gives him space to breathe, because this morning, he is mentally muddled. Torn between insanely elated, light as a bird on the wind, and completely destroyed, fears slithering out around every corner.

Aziraphale doesn’t appear interested in starting a conversation. They hadn’t spoken much since waking. Crowley had woken first and had spent an untold amount of time watching the sun rise on Aziraphale’s sleeping face as light grew bolder streaming between the curtained windows. When Aziraphale awoke, he was slow, but muttered a drowsy good morning. He then asked where the shower was and if Crowley would make tea. When Crowley gestured to another door adjacent to the bedroom, he lazily removed his corner of blankets, stood, and trundled off. They had a small disagreement through the door about how to turn the shower on before the shower began. Crowley sighed. It was already a magic morning.

From the shower to the kitchen table, Aziraphale manifested a soft robe and a matching set of sleepwear. It’s the most casual, Crowley has ever seen Aziraphale. He even leans in his chair, very different from his normal bow-straight posture. The bruising mark along his neck peaks from underneath the collar of his sleepwear. Crowley wants to lick it, but he has to focus. He prepares himself and charges forward.

“How’s the tea?” He knows how the tea is, Aziraphale is humming over it. 

“Oh, it’s perfect” Aziraphale sips it again, “I’m always amazed you actually use a kettle to boil water.” His eyes glint playfully.

Crowley takes the bait and huffs. “Wasting a miracle on tea water is too extra, even for me.” He sips his own cup. If Aziraphale is poking-fun at him right now, maybe everything is okay. He barrels on with newfound confidence.  “I was surprised, last night, that you were so…” He gestures broadly for a moment looking for the right word, “ready? Er. Prepared.” Because asking  _ why Aziraphale was a fucking master at butt stuff _ is a bit rude, but Crowley wonders how, in thousands of years of existence, they have never dished on who they’ve slept with, just hinted.

Aziraphale places his cup down, and props his chin on his hand. “Did you think I was a virgin?”

Crowley looks off, thankful again for the return of his sunglasses and the dramatic lighting in his flat. He’s not entirely sure what he looks like right now to Aziraphale. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But you thought I’d be at a disadvantage from lack of experience?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows raise.

“What, no! What?” Crowley is immediately set on edge.  _ Am I such a disaster!? _

“You weren’t the only one given seduction missions, Crowley.” Aziraphale shares matter-of-factly. “At some point, Heaven formed some committee and decided if demons can seduce people to bad, angels could seduce people to good. It was a very popular idea for most of the middle ages. What with chivalry what it was an all. Knights. Ladies. God and Country. It lasted the entirety of the crusades, if I recall, before either the committee was dissolved or Heaven decided to shift focus.” He finishes plainly. 

“Where the hell was I?!” Crowley slaps his cup into the saucer with an indignant clatter.

“They were mostly before our Agreement. I also _ liked _ those missions. It wasn’t like damp visits to pastors on horseback in Scotland, and technically, if Heaven’s theory held up, a demon shouldn’t be able to instill goodness romantically. It was based on such vague ideas, not like a blessing here, a temptation there.” Aziraphale pouts.

“How many missions?” Crowley is fumbling with a surprising array of sudden emotions.  _ Am I jealous? _

“Oh little more than a handful. It was a dreadful challenge for me to do it successfully in the beginning, so I don’t count those.”

Either relieved the number is low or more interested than ever in how many times his Angel can share something new about himself, Crowley perks up. “Anyone of note?” 

“Ah Joan of Arc? Michael took credit for it though. I remember she was deathly concerned that I had a british accent.” He chuckles. “She was very young at the time, so I was a little put out. I once had to convert a Moor, that was interesting. People always treat me oddly when I am female. The only time I’ve enjoyed Spain, I think.” Aziraphale loses himself in thought for a moment. “It was mostly unimportant warring princes and princesses. Visigoth this. Saxon that. The crusades really shook up Heaven, so Joan of Arc was a bit of an afterthought. You remembered the crusades? What a mess those were.”

“Yes, I remember” Crowley reflects that Heaven’s missions were often too bloody for Aziraphale to stomach during that time period. It likely was part of the motivation why the angel reconsidered the Agreement in the first place.

“I mean,” Aziraphale continues, “you must’ve seduced many more than me for Hell. Hmm?” 

Crowley wiggles, unprepared for Aziraphale’s focus to be returned to his history. “Well more than a handful, I think I’ve lost count. But Hell doesn’t exactly understand those tasks very well, so they are open ended. I might have opted to sleep with more people than I had to.”  _ Why only tempt when one can  _ **_tempt_ ** _? _

Aziraphale hums in understanding. “I can’t imagine another demon trying to do  _ it _ at all.”

“Like Hastur?” Crowley visibly shivers, “Why put that in my head?” Disgusted, he takes a minute to push that image out, and get back on track. “But did Heaven ever ask you to sleep with a man as a man?”

Aziraphale lingers on this question, fiddling with his empty tea cup. Crowley takes it as a sign, he’d like some more, and refills it from a matching red pot. Aziraphale takes the moment to miracle a scone, which he picks at. When the domestic bustle stills, Aziraphale shares “Well no.” He blushes a bit. “Obviously, Heaven wouldn’t go in for that.”

Crowley tilts his head interested.

Aziraphale picks at the edge of the scone but doesn’t actually eat it. Miracled food is never as good as the real thing, but he had summoned it apparently just for something to do with his hands. “In reflection, there are many times in which I realize I wasn’t a very good angel.”

“Don’t say that” Crowley murmurs.

“It’s okay. I’m coming around to it being okay.” Aziraphale sighs.

_ You are the best angel, you mean. _ But Crowley didn’t want to interrupt Aziraphale’s train of thought. Another time, he’ll remind him.

“At some point after you asked for holy water and we fell out for a bit, I got caught up in the Decadent movement. It was quite a moment, and I wasn’t really feeling myself. Romanticism was...well...romantic. It felt right to be an Angel swept up in all of that. Beauty equating to goodness was very easy to understand. I learned how to dance for heaven’s sake! Me, probably the only angel that has ever danced!” His face morphs back into a smile for a moment.

“I also had many men get very interested in me suddenly. I suppose I liked the attention and didn’t want to disappoint. In my usual way, I found it easy to make a lot of excuses about why sleeping with men was...excusable. No one in Heaven even asked about it. It escaped their notice entirely.”

“You could’ve gone through that time as a woman you know.” Crowley contributes. 

“Yes, but I didn’t, did I.” Aziraphale snips. “I don’t think it even crossed my mind.”

Crowley looks apologetic, but inside, his heart sloshes to the brim with overwhelming affection.

“I’m not sure you realize how swept up I was. On Monday, I could be waking up in Oscar Wilde’s bed.” Crowley feels venomous. “By Wednesday, I could be learning a card trick from John Maskelyne, and by Friday, I could be at the Moulin Rouge with Degas. But then all my friends started to die, or many started noticing I wasn’t aging. I had to pull back, and then the first World War started. All joy seemed to get sucked out of the world for a bit, especially in Europe. So I shuttered the bookshop and went to the US. I think every time I saw you during those years, I was mad at you or you were mad at me. Up until the church with the nazis.”

“There were a lot of things happening at that time.” Crowley understands more than he lets on. He too had a very strange 19th century. First the really long nap, which he woke up from feeling sad, distant, and honestly, fearful. Then the failure to get holy water from Aziraphale, which left him feeling lost and angry. Finally ending with the beginning of the 20th century, which required a lot of adaptation on the demon’s part, but was really, really thrilling.

“Anyway, in short, I indulged a bit. Slept with some men, not because I was told to, but because it seemed like a good thing to do.” Aziraphale, almost curtly, finishes. His forehead scrunches from what appears to be a deep existential horror.

Crowley’s voice is so so soft when he finally speaks. “Yes but Oscar Wilde is in hell...In hell for a lot of sodomy.”  He prepares himself for the worst.

Aziraphale just sighs miserably at his cup of tea, the scone forgotten.

“I mean a lot, if not all, of my human conquests are in hell too.” Crowley counters quickly but then grimaces.  _ What am I trying to do? Make him have a reason to never see me again? _

“But angels and demons don’t have heaven or hell, Crowley. You know that. We are either doing what we are supposed to do or we are annihilated. Angels don’t even get the choice to be fallen anymore.” He fiddles dejectedly at his tea cup handle. “Besides, I’m already slated for annihilation if heaven is ever inclined to try again.”

Crowley paled. He never wants Aziraphale to experience that hell of an execution ever. Ever.

“Don’t look like that. It’s honestly a godsend. I can’t feel sorry about us, about last night. I just can’t. If anyone witnessed that,” Aziraphale makes a pinched face for a moment, “on either of your or my sides, I question how they could possibly view last night as anything other than good and right. I don’t want to be part of a world that could view it as anything else. Better to just destroy me because I wouldn’t trade it for my spot back in heaven.” He squares his shoulders almost militantly, mouth tight. His bright eyes bores into Crowley’s.

Crowley’s heart pounds like a jackhammer unable to look away from Aziraphale. “I love you.” He gulped. 

Crowley had hopes when he started this conversation that it would, at least, end well. Hopes that Aziraphale would see him again and often; that he wouldn’t close himself off, scared of having shown too much or worse, thinking that he had done something truly unholy with him. Crowley also hoped that he’d be able to successfully hide his emotions as to not scare the angel away. So much for that. He repeated a little more courageously, “I love you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t miss a beat, “I love you too.” He smiles his enchanting smile, and without breaking, eye contact, glides to Crowley on the counter. All light and uncharacteristic grace, he kisses him. Crowley can only manage to slide his arms around the other man and kiss back. The cobwebs in his head vanishing as if banished. He wills himself to not liquify into jelly.  _ This is really happening, isn’t it? This is going to be a dream. This has to be a dream.  _

But it didn’t feel like a dream, and in time, Aziraphale pulled out of the kiss a little. “I need to go to my bookshop at some point today, but if you don’t have any pressing engagements, I’d just as soon go back to bed for a bit.” 

Crowley smirks, grabs his hand, and leads the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading! This was a blast to write! Please leave more comments, I'll be checking in and responding. I hope to write more but this one spilled out of me like a fever dream, so the next story will probably be a snippet. Thanks again.


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